


Hush, Love, Hush

by Carmilla



Category: Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: 2nd person POV, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmilla/pseuds/Carmilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Your nose is buried in his hair; it smells of sweat and London ash, and you *want* him.'  Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney, about 30 seconds after the end of 'A Little Priest'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush, Love, Hush

He twitches the curtains shut and turns away from the window, back towards you.

You're still breathless and hot from how he danced you round the room, which might excuse the warm flush you feel as those eyes turn in your direction again. But no - it seems you don't need excuses any more. He's on you now, hot mouth at the crook of your neck, greedy hands locking around your upper arms, pulling you closer. Languidly, he bruises you, fingers digging into your muscles as he sucks on the base of your throat. Your nose is buried in his hair; it smells of sweat and London ash, and you _want_ him. He pushes you back across the room in slow, swaying steps, holding you up so that you don't stumble, holding you still so you can't touch him. His mouth grazes up and down your neck, tasting, teasing, nipping at you.

You hit the counter with a jolt and a cloud of flour springs up around you, falls away. You're leaning backward now as his hands creep around your back, plucking at your stays, and he buries his face in your bosom.

"Oh! Mr. T -"

Your voice is breathy and shaking; you hardly know it as your own. He merely grunts "Quiet," not looking up from where he traces the line of your collarbone with his tongue, as his hands scrabble for another useless moment at your corset fastenings. Giving them up, he grabs your backside, pulling you flush against him and making a small noise of satisfaction as he begins to knead your buttocks. You answer him with your own moans but he hardly seems to notice, intent on crushing you closer to him, feeling you. Your hands are knotted in his hair, but if you're hurting him he doesn't notice that either.

A sudden tightening in his arms, and with a small jerky movement he lifts you the extra inch so that you sit on the counter. With barely a pause his hand gropes for the hem of your skirts and finds it, throwing them back and reaching between your legs, cupping you there with something more like a grip than a caress.

If he's hurting you, you don't notice it.

His hand slides inside your drawers, and you're so ready for it that they're already damp.

With a sudden, sharp pressure, he's inside you, and for the moment you think, Benjamin, but he's staring down at his own hand, hiding his eyes and the smile you know you wouldn't really see, and the thought slips away. He's moving now, rough and rhythmic, hard little jerks that jam his knuckles against your pubic bone. You realise you're making keening noises in the back of your throat, hitches and sobs that keep time with his thrusts, that don't come from pleasure or pain so much as necessity, and without looking up he shoves three fingers into your mouth and begins to fuck you there with the same quick, deliberate rhythm.

He's watching the shapes his hand makes as it moves beneath your underwear, lost in something that has nothing at all to do with you.

Just for a moment.

Then you tighten your hands in the back of his hair, and as his head jerks back you bite down on his fingers hard enough that it has to hurt, and oh, he can see you now. His eyes are nearly black as he fixes them on yours, and you stare right back, a challenge. And he starts to look a little like himself again; like a man who enjoys a challenge.

Abruptly, insistently, his thumb is pressing against your nub, moving in lazy circles as he continues to work his fingers in and out of you. You hiss around your mouthful of his skin, and rub your tongue against the underside of his palm. Your eyes want to shutter closed; you don't let them. You keep watching his face as the pressure in you builds, as you begin to twitch and close around him, and he keeps watching you, seeing you, feeling you, until you have to close your eyes and throw your head back and drive your hips back and forth, whimpering as his fingers press your tongue to the base of your mouth, clamping down on his other hand hard enough that you think it might break.

As your heartbeat and breathing begin to steady again, you can feel him still inside you, curling and uncurling his fingers. Slowly, slowly, he pulls them out, slides them over your slick, tender skin, flicks them gently against your still-sore nub, rubs them on the outside of your drawers. He pulls your skirts back down, smoothing them over your thighs. The smile he's smiling isn't Benjamin's smile, but it's beautiful just the same, and it's enough to hold you there, recovering yourself, for several minutes after he's left the room.

It's several hours before you realise he still hasn't kissed you.


End file.
